


ordinal

by chanterie



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Lyrium Withdrawal, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanterie/pseuds/chanterie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cullen's complicated relationship with the order of templars through the years described in first times, second moments of realization, and third repetitions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. firsts

 

 

**THE FIRST TIME HE ATTENDS A HARROWING**

 

Ser Keavy rests a hand on his shoulder. "You will not be required to do anything, Rutherford," she says. "Not until you take your vows and are stationed. But it would be foolish to send to you a Circle without you first knowing what is to be expected during Harrowings."

 

He swallows hard. Though he knows he has nothing to fear--there will be seasoned templars there, and even if there weren't he knows his smite is the best in his training group--his palms still sweat and his stomach twists into knots. What if the mage doesn't pass? What if something goes wrong? What if a templar gets injured?

 

Well. Two of those questions he knows the answer to. If the mage doesn't pass, they're killed. Ser Keavy will strike the blow and it will be over faster than he can say 'Andraste's ashes.' If someone gets injured, Maker forbid, there is a stash of bandages and healing potions in the Harrowing Chamber that he will be standing next to.

 

Keavy squeezes his shoulder. "Go to your mark, Rutherford. And remember to breathe."

 

Cullen nods and quickly makes his way across the stone floor. The mage to be Harrowed enters the room a moment after he settles himself. Whatever Ser Keavy and the senior enchanter tell the apprentice, it's too quiet for him to hear. He watches as the boy drinks from a chalice, then sinks to the floor, asleep.

 

He blinks. That can't truly be the extent of the test. He knows, of course, that the Harrowing requires an apprentice to enter the Fade, but standing around and watching a sleeping person doesn't seem quite as daunting as his instructors made it out to be. There must be more to it. And he must remain vigilant.

 

Yet as the minutes drag on and turn into an hour and more, he finds himself relaxing. Still watching. It wouldn't do to be caught distracted. But he is at ease enough that he's caught off guard when the apprentice's body twitches and then begins to mutate. He watches, horrified, as bone and musculature twist and warp, skin splitting and sagging and splitting again. Suddenly the term 'abomination' makes perfect sense.

 

Keavy curses and unsheathes her sword. One great slash across the apprentice's--no, the abomination's neck, and it's all over before the transformation is complete. The room falls silent, and Ser Keavy turns to Cullen with blood spattered on her face. 

 

"Sorry this was your first, Rutherford. Hoped to ease you into it a bit," she says, "But I trust you understand now why our duty is so important?"

 

Cullen swallows hard and nods. He tries not to think of the fact that the apprentice looked like he was Rosalie's age.

 

* * *

 

**THE FIRST TIME HE TAKES LYRIUM**

 

Exhaustion pulls at him, drags him down until Cullen wants to lay prostrate on the stone floor of the chapel. Maybe his dozing could be mistaken for prayer. But, no. That would defeat the purpose of the Vigil, and he surely doesn't have much time left. He can endure. He must endure.

 

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter," he reminds himself, ignoring the dryness in his throat. "Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just."

 

Behind him, a door opens. The sounds of heavy boots and plate reach Cullen's ears as he stands. His legs ache from hours upon hours of kneeling with only an old pillow to separate him from the floor. There's an odd coolness around his eyes he can't place, and he thinks he could probably drink a well dry he's so thirsty. 

 

"Blessed are the righteous," Ser Keavy says as Cullen turns to look at her. "The lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written."

 

She smiles at him and it pulls at the heavy scarring that mars her face. Claw marks, he recognizes now, and wonders if he will ever bear scars like hers. With her free hand, Keavy beckons him closer, "Congratulations, Rutherford. Just one more step."

 

She hold out a small bottle filled with blue liquid. It's entrancing. The candlelight in the chapel makes it glow, or perhaps it does that on its own. Cullen licks his lips and reaches out with shaking hands, every step forward seeming to take an age. Keavy passes him the philter and her palms cradle his hands as he drinks down the lyrium. When he pauses, it's her hands that make him keep going.

 

The draught is at once cool and burning, slaking his thirst and filling him with indescribable pain. He feels the lyrium as it slides down his throat to pool in his stomach. It spreads through his veins, scorching him, surely tearing him apart from the inside out. 

 

Then, all at once, it is over. He stands in the chapel, breathing hard as Keavy claps him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the Order, Ser Rutherford," she says, "Your brothers and sisters are waiting for you. Will you join them?"

 

All he wants to do is crawl into his bunk and sleep for a week. Maybe after he eats an entire roast and drinks an ocean. He certainly doesn't want to face a busy mess hall filled with loud noises, congratulations, and Maker only knows what else. But he smiles, if a little shakily, and nods.

 

"Yes, I will."

 

* * *

 

**THE FIRST TIME A DEMON TEMPTS HIM**

 

The sun is warm on his face as Cullen slowly wakes. He groans quietly when he realizes what that means. He's overslept. Knight-Commander Greagoir is sure to have his head for this. Except--he doesn't hear any of the normal sounds that he does in the templar dorms. Just birds and a soft laugh.

 

"Cullen, wake up."

 

His eyes slide open and he looks down. Hadley Amell smiles at him, head resting on the pillow next to his. Her red hair is a tangle around her face, but he can't help but think she's never looked more beautiful. She reaches out hesitantly to trace the lines of his face. 

 

"Good morning," she murmurs, voice rough with sleep. 

 

Cullen smiles, shy and nervous and so  _elated_  that this is happening. She's looking at him like she loves him and leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. He wraps his arms around her, sucking in a sharp breath when he feels the bare skin of her back. 

 

"Hadley--" he starts, not sure how he's going to finish the thought that never truly began.

 

She hushes him, kisses him again, and shifts so she can rest fully against his side. He can feel her breasts pressing against his skin. Her thigh is so close to his cock that if she just shifted a hair she would--

 

"I know why we asked for their help in setting the house up," she says, interrupting his thoughts, "But I can't say I'll be sad when your family leaves." She pauses. Her lower lip is caught by her teeth and she looks down, suddenly shy. "I want you all to myself."

 

There's something off about the gesture, even though he's seen it on her a thousand times. It's how she acts when she's nervous, unsure. Which is almost any time when she's not dealing with lightning or talking about her new favorite book. She often gets it when they play chess in the hall, him standing on duty and pretending like he isn't keeping track of the board and quietly telling her where to move the black pieces. But it's--wrong. Somehow.

 

A thud resounds from elsewhere in the house, followed by a hoarse yell of Cullen's name, startling the both of them.

 

"What was that?" he asks, moving away from Hadley.

 

Her hand on his arm stops him. "I'm sure it's nothing," she says. Her grip is surprisingly tight. "Branson wanting to bother you. Maybe tease you about getting married?"

 

Cullen frowns. "Branson wouldn't do that," he says, "And mages aren't permitted to marry under Chantry law." Slowly, things fall into place. Outside, the birds fall quiet and a cloud covers the sun. "This isn't real."

 

Hadley's face contorts into an ugly snarl. "Looks like I'll have to take care of our little interruption before we continue this," the demon wearing her skin says.

 

The world around him twists, distorts, and shatters like broken glass. Cullen blinks. He's outside the Harrowing Chamber. Kneeling on the floor just beyond the magical barrier, a templar smiles up at him. Farris, Cullen thinks. Just transferred to Kinloch Hold two weeks ago from Denerim. His face is covered in blood and gore. Remnants from the skirmish with Uldred's blood mages.

 

"Glad you woke up, Cullen," he says, picking himself up off the floor. "Been having the hardest time trying to get this blighted thing down. Maybe if the two of us smite it at--"

 

His words halt as claws pierce his throat. Behind him, a desire demon smiles a wicked, sharp grin that sends fear racing down Cullen's spine. "That wasn't very nice," it purrs. "Now I'll have to start all over." Farris chokes, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth, and the light fades from his eyes. "But now I have a way to make you more appreciative of what I offer, don't I?"

 

Farris' body jerks as the demon wraps its arms around the corpse. His head turns to it, lips stretching into an awful smile.

 

Cullen hears someone screaming. It takes him a moment to realize the voice is his own.

 

* * *

 

**THE FIRST TIME HE TOOK A STEP TOWARDS HEALING**

 

Two weeks is a long time to run on next to no sleep, Cullen discovers. Two hours a night just isn't enough for a man to live on, even when his duties now consist of nothing but standing and watching the wind blow waves across Lake Calenhad.

 

But every time he closes his eyes, he's back there. The demons that tormented him are dead, but more lurk in the Fade. Every time he sleeps, he could fall prey to them again. There could be more in the tower, waiting on the floors they haven't yet cleared. If he isn't vigilant, if he doesn't keep his guard up, who knows what will happen?

 

Even so, Cullen can feel himself slipping. His chin hits his breastplate three times in the span of an hour. He loses nearly two staring at the far shore. When Greagoir comes and stands next to him, it takes him almost three minutes to realize his commander is there.

 

His hands shake, even as the Knight-Commander grips them in his own. "This cannot continue, Ser Cullen," he says quietly. 

 

The tightness that has been in Cullen's gut and chest for days wrenches around itself a little more. His vision blurs, much to his horror, and his breathing comes faster with each inhale. He can't look at his commander. Can't bear to be in front of him. He wants to sit. Curl up. Make himself as small as possible and hide in all the nooks Amell once did. The world is too big and he can't--it's too much--

 

Soft leather brushes his cheeks, and Cullen realizes that he's crying. The small keening noise he hears is coming from his own throat. "Lean over," Greagoir murmurs, hand resting on the top of Cullen's head. "Try to put your head between your knees. Breathe, Cullen, breathe with me."

 

"I can't--" His chest is tight and his lungs too full and everything burns and he can't see for all the tears and he can't he can't  _he can't_.

 

Greagoir's voice is firm but kind, like he's always been to his templars. "Yes. You can. Exhale." The breath stutters out of him. "Now inhale." It's a shaky gasp, but Cullen obeys. "Now exhale."

 

They continue on like that for what feels like hours until Cullen breathes on his own. The tears are almost dry at that point, though they leave sticky tracks and a headache in their place. He can't stop shaking, even with Greagoir's hand on his shoulders to steady him. 

 

"You need to sleep," the Knight-Commander says. He continues on before Cullen can protest. "I will stand watch over you, and you will sleep for no less than five hours not counting for interruptions. Do I make myself clear?"

 

Cullen hesitates. Nods. This is an order and he cannot disobey. "Yes, Knight-Commander."

 

"Good."

 

It takes a little while longer, but he finds his feet again. Straightens of his own free will, even though he can't look Greagoir in the eye. His commander leads him into the tower again, helps him rack his armor, and sits next to him as he closes his eyes. When the nightmares come, he holds Cullen steady and doesn't say a word about the way he sobs into his pillow. For the first time since the Circle was annulled, Cullen lets himself be vulnerable.


	2. seconds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm throwing out a certain part of canon i don't like because i can and because it makes no sense at all.
> 
> **warning** for physical abuse, super super vague references to canonical implied sexual harassment, and, well. the gallows.

 

 

**THE SECOND TIME HE REALIZED APOSTASY WASN'T WHAT HE THOUGHT IT WAS**

 

It's not often that he ventures out to the Wounded Coast. Only on days where he doesn't have any duties at the Gallows does he go. Which, if he's honest, don't come as often as they should, though that's by his choice. When he leaves, he trades plate for leathers and grabs a wooden training shield that doesn't have the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on it. He's off-duty, not stupid; the Wounded Coast is always teeming with danger.

 

Which is probably part of the reason he likes going there. It's not a sparring ring where he has to be careful of his subordinates. When smugglers, and pirates, and whatever other riff-raff has washed up in the sand erroneously decide it's a good idea to attack him, he doesn't have to hold back.

 

His blood sings. It's hard to tell if the perverse pleasure he gets from a real fight is more sadism or masochism. Either way, he relishes in getting an opportunity to vent the anger that covers him like a shroud. A quick slash of the sword opens a man's middle and he falls, guts spilling into the surf. One of his companions screams in anguish, but it's cut off quickly when Cullen catches him in the face with his shield. The strike isn't fatal--the guard will want to question someone later--but it's vicious enough that Cullen wonders idly if there isn't something in him that's irreparably broken.

 

An arrow catches him in the shoulder, distracting him. The archer is behind some scrub, standing at an angle that made them near invisible until Cullen turned to face them in just the right direction. He can't get to them. He sees the archer nock another arrow. There's another warrior charging him, and the first arrow's in his shield arm. There's no promises that he's going to be able to deflect the next one. Some part of him is, for a split second, terribly relieved.

 

It turns out he doesn't have to worry about his possible death. As he parries a strike from the warrior, the ground trembles and what appears to be vines spring up from it, wrapping around the archer's legs. Cullen can't watch if he wants to keep his life, but he hears the screams as the archer's life ends.

 

Once he's taken care of the last enemy he turns, defensive stance textbook perfect and fire in his eyes. The Dalish girl who saved him smiles and waves. "Hello!" she chirps. "Sorry to interrupt, but you looked like you needed a hand. You still do, actually." She waves at the arrow still stuck in his left shoulder.

 

"You're a mage," he says, voice flat. "An apostate."

 

"I'm Merrill," she replies. "And you--oh. You're the Knight-Captain, aren't you? Oh, dear." She presses a hand to her mouth, but doesn't look overly concerned. She doesn't try to attack him. Just frowns worriedly. "Is this the part where you take me off to the Gallows to be part of your Circle?"

 

In the privacy of his own head, Cullen curses then counts backward from twenty. It's entirely possible she just saved his life. Like with Hawke a month earlier, he finds his hands are tied. He owes her a debt, now. Capturing her would be no way to repay that. 

 

He doesn't take his eyes off her as he sheathes his sword. "No." He can't sling his shield onto his back with his shoulder the way it is, but he's not sure he'd want to. It's been a little more than a year since Kinloch fell, but he's still wary of every mage that crosses his path.

 

"No?" Merrill sounds surprised, but smiles. "That's quite kind of you, if a little confusing. Do you need some help with your shoulder? That arrow looks like it needs to be pushed through before it's removed, provided you haven't nicked something dangerous."

 

He shouldn't trust her. She's a mage. But she saved his life just because he looked to be in trouble. That says much of her character. Warily, he nods. "If you try anything--"

 

"You'll smite me?" That question shouldn't carry amusement with it. But it does. "I don't want to hurt you. Well, removing the arrow is probably going to hurt. A lot. But that's different than wanting to harm you. Would it be easier for you if I left my staff over here?"

 

She doesn't need it to cast, in truth. He knows that. She knows that he knows that. Still, Cullen says, "Yes." 

 

It's a simple enough thing--checking the wound, pushing the arrow through his shoulder so the head can be broken off and the shaft removed. He doesn't let her do anything more than that. Merrill steps away from him when he stops her. Under her curious gaze, he rips part of his shirt off from underneath his brigandine to serve as a makeshift bandage. It's a little hard to wrap his own shoulder, but he manages well enough.

 

Merrill leaves once he's done, presumably heading back to Sundermount. It's not until he returns to the Gallows that he finds the sprigs of elfroot she'd tucked into his sword belt.

 

He's not surprised when he sees her a few weeks later at Hawke's side. He is surprised when she smiles at him from a distance.

 

* * *

 

**THE SECOND TIME HE REALIZED MEREDITH WAS WRONG**

 

The small courtyard outside the templars' quarters is empty more often than not. Between the smell of Kirkwall wafting across the water and the gulls roosting in the overhang, it's not exactly a pleasant place. But it's a good place to secret oneself away from the rest of the world for a little while. It's one of Cullen's favorite places in the Gallows--his personal, bird-shit-filled sanctuary.

 

To say he's surprised when he wanders out at four in the morning and finds someone else in his space would be an understatement. It takes him a moment to pair a name to the body curled in on itself. Keran. The recruit Hawke rescued two and a half years ago.

 

Cullen watches him from the entrance to the courtyard. Keran sits on a bench and looks for all the world like one of the many brass statues that litter the Gallows. The stillness is almost eerie. The boy's hands are clenched around each other so tightly his knuckles are white. If he had to make a guess, Cullen would say the grip is to keep them from trembling.

 

With a nearly silent sigh, Cullen walks into the courtyard and stands to Keran's left. His shoulders tense even more beneath the loose linen of his sleep shirt as he realizes just who caught him out after curfew.

 

"Knight-Captain," he says, voice hoarse. He doesn't look up at Cullen. Doesn't try and explain himself. 

 

Cullen watches, cataloging every movement. "You're far from your bunk, recruit," he says.

 

Keran's shoulders sag. He nods. "Yes, Knight-Captain."

 

"This is going to have to go in your record, Keran." Cullen watches as he deflates completely, leaning over until his forehead almost touches his knees. It's only then that he starts to tremble in earnest. 

 

"That's it, then." Keran's voice is flat. Defeated. And choked in a way Cullen wasn't expecting to hear. "Between this and the Knight-Commander disapproving of how Ser Thrask used to go easy on me, I'm done.  _Fuck_."

 

There's a pain in him that is familiar. It reverberates in Cullen's chest, echoing off his ribs and compelling him to sit next to the recruit. He knows well how Meredith put a stop to Thrask's coddling the boy. The way to keep him sane and whole, she argued, was not to be lax and let his mind fall prey to the demons that could be latent within him or watching beyond the Veil. It had made sense, at the time. Now he's not so sure.

 

"Why are you out here, Keran?" he asks. 

 

"Can't sleep, ser," is the quiet reply he gets. And, after a moment's visible hesitation, "The other recruits don't much like it when I wake screaming, either."

 

Cullen runs a rough hand through his curls, making them even messier than they were before. He is not Greagoir. He cannot help Keran the way he was once helped. There is too much in him that is--that is  _wrong_. Rage simmers in his gut constantly and he wonders if he hasn't forgotten how to be anything other than sharp edges. His sword is supposed to be one of mercy, but mercy is in short supply in the Gallows.

 

"Go to bed, Keran," he hears himself say. "Find someone to talk to tomorrow, after inspection. Emeric, maybe. He'll be good at listening."

 

Keran turns to look at him, disbelief and hope mingling on his face. He's so  _young_ , Cullen can't help but think. Only four years younger than himself, in truth, but that means little when he often feels forty, not twenty-four.

 

"You'll be scrubbing armor for the next two weeks in punishment for being out past curfew, but the Knight-Commander won't hear of this from me," Cullen says. "Don't let me catch you out here again."

 

It's not  _don't do this again_ , and he can tell Keran hears the distinction when the boy's eyes water and he grins. "You won't, ser. I promise. Thank you."

 

Cullen waves him off like it's nothing. It shouldn't be. It's the right thing to do. But going against what Meredith would want sits poorly. The Maker only knows what she would do in her fury if she found out her Knight-Captain was being lenient with someone who (unwillingly) consorted with blood mages.

 

* * *

 

**THE SECOND TIME HE REALIZED HIS MAGES WERE AS SCARED AS HE WAS**

 

At some point, Cullen thinks to himself that it should probably worry him how often the mages flinch around him. It first occurs when he's speaking with Bron, who spooks at his shadow when he catches sight of it, so he dismisses the thought. It's not until Lady Amell scrunches her nose and comments on "that mage in the corner being terribly shy" while visiting Solivitus that he resolves to find out why, exactly, Bron is so skittish.

 

He gets his opportunity to dig into the matter when Leandra is murdered not two weeks later. Hawke comes to him, burning with anger and grief, a letter clutched in her hand. "Tell me who wrote this, who found these books and gave them to that--that--"

 

Cullen takes the crumpled parchment from her. "I will do my best, Hawke. You have my word."

 

There are tears in her eyes when she nods sharply at him. She leaves quickly, likely to avoid breaking down in the middle of the Gallows, and Cullen unfolds the note. He recognizes the handwriting. Part of him hopes, desperately, that his first instinct is wrong. It's what makes him walk to Bron's room that evening. The library is one of the mage's haunts and if anyone can help him confirm that Orsino was taking books (or perhaps using the library to acquire them under Meredith's nose) it would be him.

 

He doesn't expect Bron to tell him he can't help.

 

"Why?" Cullen asks.

 

Bron winces and refuses to look him in the eye. "I'm to... assist Ser Finch with something this evening, Knight-Captain."

 

He frowns. "Tell me, Bron, what is Finch's rank?"

 

"Knight-Lieutenant," Bron whispers. A look of horror crosses his face. Cullen doesn't know exactly what it is that causes the reaction, but none of his suspicions are good.

 

"Which means," he says, careful not to change his inflection, "That I outrank Ser Finch and can keep him from whatever retribution he may deal out if you help me this evening."

 

Bron quickly looks down at the floor, shoulders trembling. "With all do respect, ser, you cannot be everywhere at once."

 

Cullen reaches out with gentle fingers, intending to tilt Bron's chin up so he can look at his face. But the mage flinches away from him so violently he stumbles into a chair and almost hits the floor. The sleeve of his robe rides up, revealing bruises in the shape of fingers around his forearms and the last puzzle piece clicks into place in Cullen's head.

 

He feels sick. Punishment is one thing. Templars who breach regulations enough can expect to find themselves flogged, and he knows there are similar things in place for the mages, though he has never laid a hand on one of them himself. But this--inescapable pain without reason--it makes him want to throttle Finch. 

 

His heart is beating fast, his breath coming quickly, and he realizes that Bron's reaction has made him take two steps away from the door. It's hard to tell if it's rage or disgust or something else he'd rather not think of making him like this.

 

"Knight-Captain? Knight-Captain Cullen?" Bron looks at him with confusion. His hand is outstretched, like he thought a touch would get the templar's attention. When Cullen meets his gaze, confusion makes way to understanding and a small amount of pity. Bron sighs and says, "I will help you, Knight-Captain, if you truly wish it."

 

"No!" Cullen pauses, swallows down any other reaction he might have. "No, I don't. I--I'm sorry."

 

Bron smiles. It's like looking at the reflection of an expression in a shattered mirror. "An apology is not of much use, Knight-Captain," he says simply. "And there isn't much you can do. First Enchanter Orsino keeps us as safe as he can. It's easier, now that Ser Alrik and Ser Karras are dead."

 

Cullen's heart sinks,  _aches_ in a way it hasn't in years. For Hawke, for Bron, for all the others he has ignored. He'd heard whispers, of course. More when he first came to the Gallows, before Karras made an enemy of Hawke and, just a little while later, Alrik. But he ignored them, pushed them away and locked them up in a corner of his mind so they wouldn't make him think of-- _things_.

 

He reaches out, hand hovering a fair distance away from Bron. "Tomorrow I will bring you something to help with the bruises," he says quietly. It isn't enough. But he cannot guarantee that he will be able to help in any other way, and he will not give Bron false hope. He doesn't know anything that can break a man more easily than that.

 

 

* * *

 

**THE SECOND TIME (THAT WEEK) HE REALIZED THE STATUS QUO WAS NO LONGER ACCEPTABLE**

 

Heleth is a small, willowy woman. She looks to Cullen's eyes as if a strong wind would snap her in two. Her younger sister, Sulwen, is much the same, but there is a fire in her eyes Heleth doesn't possess. They're transfers from Starkhaven's Circle. Rumor has it that they were taken from a Dalish clan wandering the Marches, not cast out like people say the Dalish do sometimes. Cullen's fairly certain what the gossips of the Gallows actually know about the Dalish wouldn't even fill a thimble.

 

They were both young when they came to the Gallows--eighteen and sixteen respectively--but they'd both been Harrowed. Or so a Knight-Lieutenant named Rylen had said in the report the Circle had sent them. Their names had been paired with a warning that they occasionally liked to cause harmless mischief, but Cullen has never seen anything to back that statement up. In truth, they're the least troublesome of that lot. Grace is lucky she hasn't been executed, especially with how erratic Meredith is acting as of late. 

 

Cullen stands guard over the Gallows main entrance and watches as Heleth and Sulwen sit in the shadows of the statues and converse quietly. Heleth shakes her head at something her sister says, but all that does is anger Sulwen. She's not an outspoken woman, but the vehemence doesn't completely surprise Cullen.

 

Heleth shushes her sister and looks around furtively. That should set off warning bells, but the way she curls in on herself when she spots Cullen watching her makes him think this isn't exactly a plot to murder people in their beds. Neither of them would have the stomach for it. Even if there's an almost defiant tilt to Sulwen's chin when she returns his gaze. He looks away.

 

Thrask watches him from across the courtyard, a frown on his face, and Cullen knows he's made a mistake. Not because he has to worry about Thrask. No, he's one of the better templars in the Gallows. But if Thrask has been watching Cullen watch the mages without him noticing, others may have as well.

 

The next few days Cullen spends riding a tension high. He takes care to not pay any extra attention to mages or the recruits. All his paperwork is done well and on time, save for the few disciplinary notices he  _knows_  are absolutely ridiculous and would set Meredith off. Her job is hard enough without her being bothered by every templar who wants to try and use the Order for their own amusement. Those requests he burns. He can feel the teeth of a trap closing around him, but his conscience prevents him from avoiding it. He must do what he can for his Knight-Commander and for the mages in his care.

 

Sulwen enters his office exactly a week after he watched her talk with her sister, a tray of food in her arms. "One of your subordinates was worried when you missed lunch," she says and her voice is completely flat. The mark on her forehead is still crusted over and he can see the sheen of a healing poultice on her skin.

 

Cullen looks down at the meal--bread, cheese, and a small assortment of fruits. A glass of water. A knife stabbed into the middle of the wooden tray in such a way that the threat cannot be misunderstood. It's unexpected. And yet, he cannot be surprised.

 

"Who asked you to bring this to me, Sulwen?" he asks.

 

"I would rather not say," she tells him, "Answering that question would be detrimental to my continued well-being."

 

He closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. It's all the confirmation he needs to know that he has misstepped. Not that he needed it. The brand on Sulwen was message enough that there are others in the Order that will grant requests he does not like. He is Knight-Captain, but Meredith is ruthless and more willing to believe her templars than the mages she should be protecting.

 

"Thank you, Sulwen. You may go."

 

She nods and leaves him. Cullen stands, rips the knife from the tray, and studies it closely. He will have to be more careful. It is not only his skin that is at risk if he makes another mistake. Between Orsino, Meredith, and the templars he may be making enemies of, he thinks he'll be lucky if he survives the year. Once, that may have been a relieving thought. Now, he wonders who will watch them all if he dies. It was a lack of oversight that brought them to where they are, after all, and it will bring them even further, for good or ill.


	3. thirds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning** this chapter for a lot of, uh, upchuck. emetephobic people might want to skim the first and last sections carefully. i'm also playing a little fast and loose with the epilogue of inquisition.

**THE THIRD TIME HE HAD TO TELL SOMEONE HE WAS NO LONGER WITH THE TEMPLARS**

 

Cassandra warns him that it's going to be awful, but Cullen doesn't realize just how awful withdrawal is until he's curled up in a room in Haven's chantry, sweating like a sinner in confession. He's soaking the sheets through. The room already smells because of it, and it bothers him more than he can say. Yet he can't find the will or the energy to get up out of bed. Everything hurts. He can't stop shaking. And this is the third day in a row he's been stuck here because of the damned withdrawal.

A sharp knock on the door startles him out of his self-pity. "Knight-Captain?"

Cullen snarls. "That's not my title. I'm not a blighted templar anymore!"

"Ha!" The door opens and a man in robes walks in. Cullen squints at him. Ah, right. Adan, the apothecary who came with Master Taigen. "Right. You're not a templar and I'm the Queen of Antiva."

If his arms didn't ache so terribly, Cullen would throw him a terribly rude hand gesture. As it is, he settles for his best glare. Not that it's as good as it could be, what with him stuck in bed with the sweats, the shakes, the aches, and the nausea. 

Adan kicks the door closed behind him and holds up a vial. "Got something for you, ex-templar. Seeker Pentaghast came by and asked if we'd anything that could help you keep food down."

As if on cue, Cullen's stomach growls. "Andraste bless you if this works, Adan," he says, eyeing the bread that's been sitting on the night table for what feels like an ungodly amount of time. "Help me up."

He holds out a hand and Adan, surprisingly enough, helps him sit. He then goes further by steadying Cullen's trembling hands as he brings the potion to his lips. It tastes how the sewers of Kirkwall smelled. Cullen gags halfway through, weakly pushing at Adan as the apothecary tips the rest down his throat.

"Maker's breath!" Cullen coughs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "What on earth is in that?"

Adan smirks and places the empty vial on the night table. "Trust me when I say that you really don't want to know." He rips a chunk off the slightly stale loaf of bread and holds it out to Cullen. "Eat a bit. I want to see if this works."

"Do you mean to tell me," Cullen says slowly, "You just forced that awful concoction down my throat and you don't even know if it's going to help?" His temper is already frayed from both the withdrawal itself and the rest of the symptoms he's having to cope with. This? This is just the cherry on top of his incredibly awful week.

"You haven't had it come back up yet, have you?" Adan asks, looking entirely too smug for his own good. Cullen hates to admit it, he has a point. Outside of the initial gagging at the taste--which still coats his mouth with a particularly rancid film--his body hasn't revolted. It actually seems to be tolerating having had something put inside it.

Cullen takes the bread from Adan grudgingly, still glaring as if he'll spontaneously develop magic and lightning will strike the apothecary where he stands if Cullen simply stares hard enough. The bread is just the right amount of crispy on the outside and (relatively) soft on the inside. Though incredibly bland, it tastes so much better than whatever it is Adan forced on him that Cullen has to bite back a pleased groan. After a day and a half without being able to put anything in his mouth without his gut roiling, enjoying his sense of taste again is positively heavenly.

He chews. Swallows. Continues his staring contest with Adan as the both of them wait to see if his stomach is going to throw it back up within two minutes like it did everything previous.

It doesn't. If it weren't for the fact that he's still shaking and weak, Cullen would stand up and dance the remigold in celebration.

"Well, will you look at that. Master Taigen's half-baked idea actually worked. Let me know when you need another one, templar," Adan says, grabbing the vial and heading to the door. 

Cullen, distracted by the wonderful, glorious bread he can finally eat takes a moment to process that. And then he glares at the closing door. "I'm not a templar!" he yells after Adan. The apothecary's loud belly-laugh echoes throughout the chantry, and Cullen can't find it in himself to be as annoyed as he perhaps should be. It's been too long since anyone involved with the conclave has laughed like that.

 

* * *

**THE THIRD TIME HE USED HIS POWERS WITHOUT LYRIUM**

  
The first time it happens, he brushes it off as a fluke. He hasn't been off lyrium for more than two weeks--there's likely some of it still in his blood. So nullifying Solas' spell to light the candles around the war room when he gets particularly annoyed and is just exhausted enough from fighting near non-stop for two days straight to be petty isn't completely improbable.

The second time it happens is in the chaos of the attack on Haven. He silences one of the Venatori spellbinders and doesn't think anything of it until he can see Skyhold in the distance and lets himself relax a little. 

The third time, he's sparring with Cassandra.

Cullen is very good at what he does. He's been training since he was a boy and has always been the picture of diligence when it comes to his exercise routines. Since the Inquisition was declared, he's been getting even more practice since there are an abundance of sparring partners that can keep up with him.

He is _very_ good. Cassandra is better. 

She makes him work for every hit against her shield. Every parry sends shocks racing down his arms. Oh, he gives her a run for her money--Cullen is nothing if not determined and that goes a long way--but after every sparring session he leaves the ring bruised, exhausted, and smiling so much his cheeks hurt.

Sparring with Cassandra pushes him. It tests his limits and forces him to work on instinct instead of consciously analyzing every move. He sees an opening, and before he can think the words, he goes for it. She knocks him into the dust in return. Cullen rolls back onto his feet and lunges forward to attack. Gritting his teeth, he grounds himself in his resolve. White flashes around him--the sun glinting off her shield?--as he lashes out with the practice blade. The hit lands, and she falls ass over tea kettle in the dirt.

She doesn't get up. Warily, Cullen relaxes his stance. "What?" he asks.

"You--don't realize what you just did?" she returns, every inch of her radiating incredulity.

He thinks back, looks up at the sky. The sun is behind Cassandra, hovering over the edge of the battlements. Whatever the light was, it wasn't the reflection he initially thought it was. But then what on earth could it have--

Cullen goes still. No, he thinks. There is absolutely no way that he just _smote_ Cassandra. He has no lyrium left in his body. According to the Chantry, that's what gives the Order their abilities. And yet...

He's sure the expression he turns on Cassandra as she stands and dusts herself off is completely bewildered. The look she gives him in return is completely level save for the hint of a smile she's clearly trying to hide. "Try it again," she says. "Like you were taught."

"I can't--I shouldn't be able to do that," he says. He's not a templar. This shouldn't be possible.

Cassandra shakes her head. "This would not be the first lie of the Chantry's the Inquisition has uncovered, Cullen. You know this. And if it is useful..." She lets the sentence peter out, unfinished. "Try again."

Cullen lowers his sword and shield. Though he doesn't need to, he lets his eyes drift close as he reaches. What he's looking for, he doesn't know, but he finds it. He pulls it up from within himself and twists it, concentrating the way Ser Keavy taught him to when he was young and he believed that he would never be able to match a knight without lyrium in his veins. His eyes slide open just in time to watch the white anti-magic field radiate from his body and pass through Cassandra. 

"How?" he asks, suddenly very glad it's still early enough in the morning that they haven't drawn a crowd. He's not sure what he would do if his men could see the lost expression on his face or hear the hoarseness of his voice. 

Cassandra crosses the sparring ring until she can rest a hand on his shoulder. "I do not know. But we will find out. Try not to think about it too much for now," she says, stepping away from him and sheathing her sword. "You'll get caught up in your own head if you do, and we need your attention here."

It's not reassurance. It is a reminder of his duty to the Inquisition. They are his Order now, and he will not give less to them than he did the Chantry. Cullen huffs and slings his shield over his shoulder. He's not sure whether he should curse how Cassandra can see right through him or thank the Maker for bringing her into his life.

 

* * *

  
**THE THIRD TIME PRAYER AND FAITH SAW HIM THROUGH**

 

He kneels before the statue of Andraste and the words of the Chant come readily to his lips. It's something of a relief, even in this time of struggle, to be able to pray and have hope that his prayers will be heard. In Kirkwall he prayed just as diligently, and there he learned patience. It doesn't come easy to him in other aspects in his life, but in this, it does. It may take years for his faith to be rewarded, but he truly believes it will be. He can't look at the Inquisition and all they've done and not believe.

"You have walked beside me down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me. I have faced armies with You as my shield, and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence."

"Do you truly believe that, Commander?" Leliana's voice is quiet, but the chapel is small and the soft sound carries.

Cullen pauses in his prayer. "Yes, I do." He looks over his shoulder to where the Nightingale leans against a pew and frowns. "Do you not?"

Leliana smiles. It is not a sharp thing like her smiles can be, all jagged edges laced with knowledge like poison. It is instead small and genuine. Cullen has often thought of it as Josephine's smile--there's a quiet fondness in it when Leliana directs it to the ambassador that reminds him a little of Mia.

"I do," she says. Clasping her hands behind her back, she strides forward to stand at his shoulder. "There have been times when I doubted and wondered if the Maker had truly abandoned us. But not lately."

Cullen watches her, weighs his words carefully. "Not since Haven?"

"No, not since Haven." 

He turns his gaze back to the statue and unclasps his hands. Silence reigns and it feels... wrong somehow to continue praying with Leliana standing by his side. There is something in the air he can't put a finger on. He feels as if he is being tested, though he knows Leliana already has the measure of him. They have been working together for nearly two years now. He's fairly certain she knows all the embarrassing stories from when he was a recruit and then some.

"Did you know," Leliana continues after a long moment as if their conversation never lapsed, "That the Order often looked for strength of faith and conviction more than they did anything else?"

Cullen snorts. "That doesn't surprise me."

"Did you know--" Here she pauses until Cullen looks up at her and catches her gaze. "Your devotion is why you were chosen?"

He quails under the weight of her stare and turns to look at Andraste's toes. "The faith of the Order failed everyone. When I was a templar, my faith would have had me committing terrible crimes against people for an accident of birth. Forgive me if I don't find your words complimentary." It's one thing for his faith to sustain him now. It was an entirely different thing then. Or so he tells himself.

Leliana hums. "It is true, you stumbled quite a bit. But you found your way back to the light and the true purpose of the Order."

She pauses. He says nothing, for there is nothing he can say. Cullen made the choice to leave the Order behind, and he doesn't regret it. 

"Scout Harding has sent a raven," she continues when it becomes clear he will not speak. "The Inquisitor and her party are all alive, if injured. They will be back home tomorrow evening."

Slowly, Cullen turns to look at her. There is a strange mixture of anger and relief bubbling in his chest. "You couldn't have led with that?"

Impish is not a word he would often ascribe to the former Left Hand, but the grin she gives him can't be adequately described any other way. "You would not have listened to the rest if I had, and it is something you need to think on." At his glare, her grin softens, and she cups his cheek in her palm. She presses a kiss to his forehead. "The ones who love you have forgiven you. Rest in that, Cullen, and hold onto your faith. It is part of what makes you a good man, and a good commander."

It's not quite the end of a hymn, but he thinks he understands. 

 

* * *

  
**THE THIRD TIME HE REALIZED (AND THE FIRST TIME HE ACCEPTED) THAT PART OF HIM WOULD ALWAYS BE A TEMPLAR**

It says something about Cullen that he is willing to listen to retching and smell the sour bitterness of bile while working on paperwork in his office. He's not sure what, but it says something. Likely not anything as amusing as Rylen's commentary on his nausea though.

"Fucking, Maker-forsaken, blighted, demonic _shitballs_ ," Rylen groans, resting his head on the lip of the large bucket he's hunched over. "How in the name of Andraste's perky tits did you manage this while the conclave was convening?"

Cullen tries not to smile. He doesn't entirely succeed. "My faith saw me through, as it will for you, Knight-Captain."

"Oh, fuck off." Rylen flips him the bird, dry heaves, and resumes muttering under his breath. "Faith my tattooed arse. Like Andraste's going to make this any easier for me."

"Her Herald might, if you ask nicely enough," Cullen says placidly, signing his name to the bottom of a report to be sent to the Inquisitor's office.

In truth, this is only the beginning, and Cullen is bracing himself for what will follow. Vomit, shakes, and sweats are easier to deal with than the anger, paranoia, and, if Rylen is truly unlucky, hallucinations that will come later. He's sure the Inquisitor would be willing to help wherever she could. But the withdrawals will leave his captain vulnerable, and Cullen knows how hard it is to be like that around her.

He says none of this, just prepares for a retort. But whatever snide and sarcastic remark Rylen is prepared to unleash on him is cut off by a knock on the east door. Ser Barris enters and, to his credit, doesn't say a thing about the cot set up in the corner of the office or the very annoyed, very sick templar half hanging off it.

Cullen smiles. "What can I do for you, Knight-Commander?"

Barris hands him a set of papers with three columns of names on each piece. "This," he says, "is the list of those in the Order who wish to follow in your footsteps and try to quit lyrium." 

"Tell them not to do it," Rylen says from his corner, "Unless they're willing to part ways with their stomach and tongue. Everything's going to taste sour from now on, mark my words, Delrin."

Cullen shares an amused look with Barris before waving him on. The second set of papers he's handed has less names and nothing written on them to say what it's a list of other than a random collection of templars. He raises an eyebrow at the Knight-Commander. The smile Barris gives him is a little worrying for all that it's perfectly polite.

"That, ser, is a list of all the templars who have asked to stay with the Inquisition under your command instead of rejoining the Order or the reformed Seekers of Truth," Barris says.

It takes a moment for that to sink in. When it does, Cullen gapes at him. Barris' smile grows and Rylen falls into a fit of mad giggles at his commander's expense. Without looking over at the cot, Cullen grabs an empty inkwell and lobs it in Rylen's general direction. It does nothing to stop the laughter, but it does make a satisfying _thud_ as it connects with the captain's head.

"The Inquisitor," Cullen says when he finally remembers how to string his words together into something that isn't a series of half-formed questions, "Is looking to disband as much of the Inquisition as possible. The men have been told this."

Barris nods. "They have and they understand her reasons. But the way we see it, Commander, there are still rifts that need closing and demons that need killing. We're more well-equipped to do that than any of the sell-swords who joined up, or the soldiers and chevaliers we've had on loan."

He has a point. Cullen hates it a little, but it's a very good point. He frowns down at the list in his hand. "I... will think over this, and talk with Cassandra--pardon me, Divine Victoria--about how to begin things with those who wish to stop taking lyrium."

Barris thumps his fist against his breastplate in a salute and leaves as quickly as he came. As the door closes, Cullen lets his gaze fall back to the list. It's a little more than a third of the templars who joined the Inquisition. The idea that they want to stay specifically to serve under him when Cassandra is revolutionizing both the Order and the Circle... It doesn't sit well. It's too much of a shock.

"You know," Rylen says, bringing his mind back to the present, "No one's going to make you start calling yourself Knight-Vigilant if you let them stay."

Cullen pulls the sort of face his mother used to tell him would stick if he kept making it. "Maker, don't even joke like that. This is enough of a problem as it is."

Rylen laughs. "You really don't see it, do you?" He shakes his head. "You're a pain in my arse, Rutherford, but you're probably the best commander I've ever served under. You think I would've stayed in Kirkwall as long as I did if you weren't?"

"Yes." Cullen smiles wryly, knowingly, the scar on his face tugging it into a lopsided thing.

"Well--alright, I can't deny that one." Rylen runs a hand through his damp hair and shrugs. "Everyone knows you don't like associating yourself with the Order anymore. None of us blame you for it either. But it wasn't the Inquisitor who helped us figure out what a redeemed Order would look like."

The smile turns to a frown. "The Inquisitor is the one who offered the Order an alliance and a chance at redemption," Cullen protests.

"The Inquisitor is a Circle mage who hasn't the faintest idea what the Order is supposed to be like, especially not on the inside," Rylen shoots back, quick as lightning. Cullen opens his mouth to speak, but his second in command cuts him off at the pass. "Will you shut up and take responsibility for the good you've done?"

They glare at each other, the air between them practically crackling. It's not that Cullen doesn't see where Rylen is coming from, he does. Maker's breath, he even agrees with him. But accepting something in his head is a lot different than accepting it in his heart and he's not entirely sure what to do with the idea that he didn't leave the Order behind as much as he intended to.

The tension dissipates and the moment shatters as Rylen scrabbles for the bucket and throws up. Cullen sighs and looks down. The light of the candle on his desk shines on gauntlet, refracting off the embossing. No wonder there were people who didn't understand how he could have left the Order, he thinks. He still carries around the Sword of Mercy on his armor. After all he's been through, even with how disillusioned he finds himself with the Order and the Chantry, he can't find it in him to think of the symbol as a bad one.

Damn Barris for bringing this to him. And damn Leliana for hinting at it weeks ago. He wouldn't even be considering this whole idea--whatever it is outside of 'let the templars stay a while'--if it weren't for her. 

He glances at Rylen, moaning pathetically in his cot. "Do you want me to ask Adan if he has a potion that will help?"

Rylen squints at him. "I thought you said the one he gave you tasted like liquefied fish blended with piss."

"It did."

The captain frowns, thinking it over for a moment. "Alright, if he's got it, I'll take it. Can't be worse than this."

Cullen grins as he stands and makes for the door. "You say that now..." He lets the sentence hang in the air, and ducks out onto the battlements, laughing, as Rylen returns his inkwell to him the same way Cullen lost it.


End file.
